'SCOT FREE.'
On the morning after the murder, so much of the daylight as could
force its way through the begrimed glass, or greased paper acting as
substitute for absent glass, in the low window of the tramps' home
struggled in a shame-faced manner into the den, and faintly revealed
the prostrate forms of its inhabitants.
Most of them were still asleep, but by one man there the advent of
that streak of light had been long and anxiously looked for. This was
the man dressed in sailor's clothes, whose dread proceedings on the
previous night have been at length recounted; he who was called Tom
Summers by those lying around him, and whose demand for a pillow, and
complaint of the loss of his bundle, had alternately roused their
scorn and mirth.
As the first ray penetrated the room, Tom Summers cautiously withdrew
the arm which, during the night, he had kept drawn across his face,
and looked round him. So far as he could make out, none of his
companions were yet awake, and he availed himself of the opportunity
to take a small looking-glass from his pocket, and propping it against
the wall, he rapidly surveyed himself in it, pulling his red wig
further down over his face, and settling the red beard, which had
become shifted during the night. No stings of conscience, no
terrifying reminiscences of the foul deed which he had committed,
disturbed his rest; the strain upon his mental and bodily faculties
had been so great that he had slept heavily and soundly, without a
dream, without a movement. Even then, as he surveyed himself in the
little pocket glass, he felt his eyelids closing, the elbow on which
he leant giving way under him, and he felt more than half inclined to
drop down upon his side, and slumber again.
It must not be! He had set himself the task of rousing with daylight,
and had fulfilled it, and he had too much to do to permit himself to
relapse into slumber; so, after indulging in one luxurious but silent
yawn and stretch, he pulled himself together by an effort, and
staggered to his feet. One or two of the sleepers in his immediate
neighbourhood, roused by the noise he made, cursed him roundly; but
beyond this no notice was taken of his proceedings.
Tom Summers stepped quickly down the creaking, rickety staircase, at
the bottom of which he found the proprietor's 'deputy'--a
shock-headed, blear-eyed old man, who acted as the porter and boots of
the establishment; the daylight had not yet penetrated to this part of
the house, and the old man held a flaring tallow candle in his hand,
with which he surveyed the sailor.
'O, it's you, Jack, is it?' he said, in a thin piping voice. 'I
thought it was some of the coves trying to come the double over me,
but you paid your shot last night--I saw you.'
'Yes, yes, I paid last night,' repeated the sailor quickly. 'Open the
door, please, and let me out.'
'Why, what's your hurry?' asked the old man, turning towards the hole
from which he had just emerged, and looking up at the old Dutch clock
which hung against the wall; 'it has only just gone five, and--'
'I've got to join my ship,' said Summers, 'and I must be off at once.
Let me out, please.'
The old man unlocked the door, and pulled it open by degrees. As soon
as there was space enough for him to pass, Tom Summers slipped by
without a word, and went limping up the court. The old man looked
after him with bent brows, muttering in a tone of great disgust:
'That's polite, any way--got to join your ship, have you? I tell you
what, my lad, I believe your ship is H.M. gunboat Crimp; and that as
soon as you get on board of her, there will be a muster of all hands
for punishment parade;' and grumbling thus, he returned to his den,
closing the door after him.
Meanwhile Tom Summers, when he once found himself clear of the court,
turned his back on the water-side quarters, and made the best of his
way towards the Lime-street station. He still walked with an
apparently painful limp; he still shuffled along with his shoulder
almost rubbing against the wall; he looked like a sailor just
recovering from a bad illness, and as such he was compassionated at
the Lime-street station by an old woman, who gave him sixpence, and
offered him a pull at the black bottle in her wicker basket, telling
him, at the same time, that her son was at sea too, and on the west
coast of Africa; worse luck!
It was for the parliamentary train to Chester, which was about to
start, that Tom Summers took a third-class ticket; and carefully
avoiding the carriage into which he watched his recent benefactress,
climbed into an empty compartment, and curling himself up into a
corner, scarcely waited for the starting of the train to fall asleep.
There was no chance of any particular notice being taken of him, for
scarcely a train left Lime-street which did not carry some liberty-men
from the great ships in the Mersey going inland for a few days'
furlough. There was no chance of his being carried beyond his
destination, for he had purposely selected a carriage which did not go
farther than Chester; he could enjoy the luxury of a long silent
sleep, and he did. Once he started forward and groaned, but on waking
suddenly he could recollect nothing more than that he had been
striking at something which disappeared beneath his blow; and once
more he put his feet upon the seat, and went to sleep again.
By the time the slow-going train, which stopped at every station to
pick up and let out crowds of men and women, carrying baskets of
country produce, arrived at the Chester station, Tom Summers was
thoroughly rested. He stepped blithely out of the carriage, exchanged
a pleasant good-morning with the guard, and made straight for the
newspaper stall on which the bundle of Liverpool papers, only arriving
in time at Lime-street to be thrown into the van, were then being
unpacked. He bought a copy of each morning journal, and seating
himself on a neighbouring bench, turned one after the other inside
out, and rapidly ran his eye over their contents. Twice he passed the
morning journals thus in review before him, occasionally starting as
his eye caught certain paragraphs with sensation headings, but reading
rapidly on until he had perused the batch. Then, with a sigh of
relief, he rose and made his way to the cloak-room. To the porter who
was in attendance there in the absence of the general functionary, not
yet arrived, Tom Summers handed a printed ticket, immediately
receiving for it in exchange a small black bag.
'Here is your kit. Jack,' remarked the porter, handing it to him.
'My skipper's, not mine,' said Tom Summers; 'it's too fine for the
likes of me;' words which had a hidden humour apparently altogether
too much for the porter? who kept bursting into loud guffaws of
laughter long after Tom Summers had left him.
With the small bag swinging upon his hand, Tom Summers walked past the
Queen's Hotel, and down the broad road, yet unbuilt on, leading to the
town. On one spot a temporary wooden circus had been erected, and he
stopped to read the bills of the performance hanging at the door. Then
he lounged along again; but as soon as he came within the precincts of
the town, he turned in between two of the old houses up a passage, at
the end of which was a flight of stone steps leading to the ancient
city walls. These he ascended, and when he found himself on the walls,
he hesitated as though in doubt which way to turn.
Beneath him lay the old city, its quaintly fantastic gabled roofs, its
cathedral tower, its numerous church spires, and its hundred relics of
mediaeval architecture glowing in the early morning sun. Beyond were
to be seen the broad silver windings of the Dee, the velvet-turfed
racecourse, just outlined by its white posts and rails, and far away
in the distance, heaving up their broad shoulders out of the blue
haze, the majestic range of the Welsh mountains.
That was the side to which Tom Summers inclined; he sought the
country, not the city; and turning sharply to his right, he made a
half circuit of the wall, and descended in a by-lane which gave right
upon the racecourse.
Once only did he pause in his work, and that was when his steps took
him in front of the county gaol, a full view of which is commanded
from the walls; a prison omnibus drew up at the huge outer gate, and
from it some half-dozen prisoners descended, heavily handcuffed, and
were marched into the gaol-yard between a file of warders. Tom Summers
surveyed this little ceremony with great interest, leaning over the
top of the crumbling wall, and shading his eyes from the sun with his
hands. When the great gates clanged behind them, an expression, half
of pity, half of contempt, crossed his face, and after he had
muttered: 'Poor devils,' he speedily added: 'Stupid fools,' then he
shrugged his shoulders and went on his way.
When Tom Summers found himself on the flat bare expanse of the
racecourse, he seemed considerably disappointed, and looked round with
dismay at the abandoned prospect before him. On one side lay the
river, but that seemed to offer him no consolation; on the other, the
town, but on that he had already turned his back. At length, after a
careful survey, he saw at about the distance of half a mile, on a
rising ground, a little thicket, not much more indeed than a largish
clump of trees, and towards that he at once bent his way. The sun by
this time had attained considerable height, and more than considerable
strength; and when the wayfarer had skirted the racecourse, and toiled
across the intervening fields, and up a wooded knoll, he was tired and
hot. The outermost edge of shade did not, however, content him. He
paused there and looked round to note the farmer's wain, a dot upon
the distant turnpike road; the lark singing in high heaven above his
head; the man and boy at plough-work three fields off, the one intent
on his furrow, the other on his team. And then, having satisfied
himself that such human beings as he had seen were unobservant of his
actions, and that there were none others within range, he plunged
deeper into the little wood, and opening the bag which he carried with
a key, drew from it a plain gray suit of morning dress and a soft-felt
wideawake.
In less time almost than it takes to write, he had divested himself of
his sailor's clothes, and of the red wig and beard, all of which he
thrust into the bag; then dressing himself in the gray suit, and
donning the wideawake, he took the bag in his hand, and left the
little wood on the opposite side to that on which he had entered it.
The clerk in the cloak-room at the Lime-street station that afternoon
was more than usually busy, and consequently more than usually
short-tempered. He was ticking off an enormous number of entries in
the way-bill, and was well down the third column, when he heard a soft
voice from the sliding window, which was open, say:
'I beg your pardon.'
'Seven hundred and twenty-three, barrel of oysters marked X.O.,'
muttered the clerk to himself, giving no heed to the interruption.
'Seven hundred and twenty-four, crate of live fowls; seven--'
'I beg your pardon,' said the voice again, and the clerk looked up and
found that it belonged to a slim gentleman in a pale gray suit, and
with a soft black-felt hat on his head, and carrying a small bag in
his hand. 'Two days ago I came by the noon express from Euston,' said
the gentleman, 'and booked my portmanteau to Liverpool; but being
taken ill, I was compelled to get out at Edge-hill, and so my
luggage came on without me. A brown portmanteau, bearing the name of
Dunn--shall I have the good luck to find it here?'
'If it is here you will, sir,' growled the clerk, dying to get back to
the way-bill. 'Two days ago, you say; brown portmanteau, name of Dunn?
Here you are.'
'I am very much obliged to you, indeed,' said the gentleman.
'Going by cab or train, sir?' said the clerk shortly.
'By cab, if you please, to--'
'Here, Jim,' called the clerk to a passing porter, 'put this
portmanteau on a cab for the gentleman. Parson out for a holiday, I
should think,' he said, muttering to himself, looking after the
passenger, who was following his luggage; 'they always try to get out
of uniform, but are frightened to get into anything louder than gray.'
Mr. Dunn saw his portmanteau placed upon the cab, and, giving the
porter sixpence, bade him tell the driver to go to the Adelphi Hotel.
He looked hard at the porter's face while he spoke to him, as he had
looked from under his overhanging brow at the clerk in the cloak-room,
as he looked at the cabman when, after taking a note of the number of
the vehicle, he descended in front of the Adelphi.
As he advanced quickly to the glass case in which are enshrined the
presiding goddesses of the establishment, he was struck with a sudden
chill; he shivered violently and shrugged his shoulders, and rubbed
his hands together as he stood asking whether he could be accommodated
with two rooms--a sitting-room and bedroom--leading out of one
another.
'Certainly, sir,' was the gracious reply. 'Show ten and eleven,
Charles. You seem to be very cold, sir?'
'I have taken a chill, I think,' said Mr. Dunn, pausing at the bottom
of the stairs and looking round. 'I come from a climate where frost
and east winds are unknown, and if I mistake not, there is a fine
specimen of the latter raging through your streets just now.'
'Beg your pardon, sir, wind's southwest,' said Sam, the porter, who
was standing by.
'Well, whatever it is, it seems to have penetrated right through me,'
said Mr. Dunn, shivering again, 'and I must ask for a good fire in my
sitting-room. What's this?' He was proceeding up the stairs, but
paused again as two policemen, followed by a small mob, which remained
outside, entered the house, and approached the glazed sanctum.
'Beg your pardon, miss,' said one of them, who wore the blue-braided
frock of an inspector, touching his hat, 'but we have come to make
some inquiries. The body of a gentleman, evidently a case of murder,
has been discovered, and it is recognised by a cabman as that of a
fare whom he drove from this hotel to the docks, and who is supposed
to have been a visitor here.'
'O my, how dreadful!' says the young lady in the glass shrine.
'Perhaps you had better see the manager, inspector; just step in here,
if you please.'
She rang a bell, and Sam and the waiter and the traveller, who had all
suspended their proceedings, now walked up-stairs, the former bearing
the portmanteau, and the latter muttering:
'Murder! body! What an unpleasant affair!' Then calling back, said:
'Please don't forget to send a chambermaid to light the fire at once.'
When the porter had placed the portmanteau in the bedroom, and he and
the waiter had retired, Mr. Dunn threw himself into an easy-chair, and
with his arms folded and his legs crossed, fell into a reverie, which
lasted until he was aroused by a knock at the door. He did not call
out 'Come in' until he had retired to his bedroom, half closing after
him the door of communication, and through the crack watched the
operation of lighting the fire by the kneeling chambermaid.
When the girl had retired, Mr. Dunn emerged from the bedroom, and made
straight for the window. A great breadth of street between the hotel
and the opposite houses; no chance of his being overlooked. He walked
quietly to the door, turned the key, and settled it so in the lock as
to prevent his being spied upon from the outside; then, with soft
quick steps, entered the bedroom and immediately came out again,
bringing with him the hand-bag which he himself carried up the stairs.
A momentary hesitation now, and a stealthy and sharp look round; the
next minute the bag is open, and Mr. Dunn has taken from it and laid
upon the table the sailor's dress which Tom Summers wore in the low
tavern and the tramps' lodging-house, and at the same time has
produced from his breast-pocket a long shiny pair of scissors. With
these he makes short work of the sailor's suit, tearing and ripping it
into strips, and cutting these strips into smaller pieces, which he
gathers together in a heap in the middle of the table.
Then Mr. Dunn, returning to the bedroom, unlocks the portmanteau which
he had received from the cloak-room at Lime-street, lays out his
dressing materials on the table and some clothes on a chair, takes a
Bradshaw and a Tourist's Guide to Ireland with him into the
sitting-room, and then, with a sudden effort, gathers the whole heap
of cut and tattered clothing in his arms, and throws it on to the
fire, which by this time is blazing brightly. Some of the little bits
of blue cloth take fire at once, and go eddying up the chimney--others
smoulder slowly; but Mr. Dunn stands in front of the fireplace, gazing
at the grate, now and then patting and forming its contents with the
shovel, until no fragment of the clothes remains visible--only white
dust and charred ashes. Then he throws back his shoulders and
stretches out his arms like one rid of an intolerable burden, and
heaves a great sigh of relief.
Quick now, for the burning cloth has left a pungent, titillating,
acrid smell, which must be attended to immediately. Mr. Dunn draws an
easy-chair to the corner of the table close by the fireplace, and
rumples the antimacassar, which has been laid on by careful hands;
then takes the Tourist's Guide, places it on the table in close
proximity to the chair, opens it, and places his gold pencil-case
between the leaves; lastly, he takes a shovelful of red-hot coals from
the grate, and deliberately strews them over the hearthrug; then he
quietly quits the room, leaving the door open behind him.
Meanwhile, Inspector Jeffery and his subordinate. Sergeant Scott, were
enjoying themselves after their fashion. They had a great triumph of
popular excitement and curiosity up to the doors of the hotel, and
once inside, they were destined to still greater distinction, not,
indeed, at the hands of the young lady in the glass case--she was too
much in the habit of seeing celebrities of all kinds, military and
naval heroes, leading lawyers, great authors and actors, all of whom
were in the habit of putting up at the Adelphi, and addressing polite
nothings to her, to be particularly moved at the entrance of a couple
of policemen, even though engaged in investigating a murder mystery.
When she had turned them over to the manager, her business with them
was concluded, and she went back to her ledger and to answering the
numerous applicants at the glass case, without bestowing another
thought upon the visitors in blue-braided uniform. But the gentleman
who at that time filled the position of manager was a very different
kind of person; he delighted in the mysterious and romantic, and the
word 'murder' sounded pleasantly in his ear. The police officers were
invited into his private sanctum, were bidden to take seats, and were
asked what beverage would be most agreeable to them. The inspector, a
man of travel and of taste, suggested dry sherry; the sergeant, a pure
and simple Liverpudlian, would have liked to have named gin, but he
recollected where he was, and asked for brandy.
'And now,' said the manager, as soon as the visitors were comfortably
seated, with their glasses before them, 'now, inspector, tell us all
about it.'
'There isn't much to tell, sir,' said Inspector Jeffery, 'though it is
as bold and, I may say, as clean a job as I have met with in my
experience.'
'And you mean to say the murdered man was a visitor in this hotel?'
interrupted the manager. 'Who could it be?'
'I'm coming to that presently, sir,' said the inspector, who always
delivered himself according to what he called 'the laws of evidence,'
and who was terribly put out by having his straight story broken in
upon. 'I said it was a bold and clean job, and I might have added
clever, for although there was a patrol passing up and down in front
of the very door of the warehouse where it was committed every half
hour, to say nothing of sergeants visiting rounds and all that, not a
trace was seen or heard of anything about it until the people came to
the warehouse this morning.'
'Warehouse! How did he get in there? It must have been done by one of
the warehouse hands,' again interrupted the manager.
'When you have done, sir, I will continue,' said the inspector
testily. 'It was one of those large warehouses close by Water-street,
which are let in floors, or flats as they call them in Scotland; each
lock up separate to themselves, with a common stairway, and where,
there being no porter resident on the place, the front door is always
kept unfastened. I have spoken to the commissioners about that once or
twice, suggesting an order should be issued to have some one
responsible for those doors being locked, and if that had been the
case there would have been no murder. It was an out-door clerk
belonging to Triggs and Vyner, wool-staplers, on the third floor, that
discovered the murder. He came about seven o'clock this morning,
having forgotten his note-book last night, and being unable to start
his rounds without it. When he got up to the first-floor landing, he
found the dead man lying in a heap in the corner. He thought he was
drunk at first--not a tramp, he could not have been that by his
clothes, but some gentleman who had been dining out and mistaken his
road home--but when he bent over him he found that the man was dead.
There was very little blood on the floor, though his clothes were
soaked with it. He had been stabbed to the heart with a long-bladed
knife, more like a dagger, which was lying by his side. Such a stab,
so straight and sure, I never saw before in my experience, nor our
divisional surgeon neither. He says, if it weren't for reflecting upon
the credit of the profession, he could almost swear it had not been
done by any amateur.'
'Good Lord!' said the manager, by this time intensely interested.
'Well, what then?'
'Then, I was sent for,' resumed the inspector, 'and I came down, and
by this time there was a crowd round the place, and my men had some
difficulty in turning them out. Two or three of them I allowed to
stop, and among them was old Tom Langman the flyman, who whispered to
me that he recognised the body as that of the gentleman he had driven
from this house to the docks, and who, he thought, was one of a large
theatrical party now staying here.'
'Not now,' cried the manager, 'they're gone; went away yesterday in
the Cuba. Why, good heavens, it must be number fourteen! He was to
have gone back to London last night, but Miss Jennings told me he had
changed his mind, and though he was not at home his things were still
in his room.'
'Better send and see if they are there now,' said the inspector. 'What
was the gentleman's name?'
'I cannot say,' said the manager. 'You see I was so taken up with
listening ta Duval, and looking at Miss Montressor, and laughing at
that funny fellow in the check suit, that I didn't take much notice of
the others. I will call somebody to go up to fourteen, and--I beg your
pardon, sir,' he exclaimed to the gentleman whom he found on the other
side of the door just as he opened it, 'did you wish for anything?'
'Not at all,' said the gentleman in a soft voice. 'I am Mr. Dunn, a
visitor at this house occupying number ten, and I heard something as I
was passing the bar about some murder which had been discovered.'
'Yes, indeed, sir, a dreadful murder of a poor gentleman who
was staying here, and who seems to have been decoyed into some
out-of-the-way place and stabbed to the heart.'
'Indeed,' said Mr. Dunn, 'decoyed into an out-of-the-way place? Ah,
probably some woman in it, I should imagine.'
'That's a very good notion, sir,' said the manager, 'very good indeed;
the inspector of police is in this room, sir; perhaps you would just
step in and mention it. Inspector, here is a gentleman staying in the
house who has got what I consider a very excellent idea about the
murder.'
'O indeed, sir,' said the inspector gruffly. He greatly disapproved of
amateur suggestions.
'Not at all a great idea, inspector,' said Mr. Dunn softly; 'our
friend here is pleased to speak too highly of it--merely a notion
which has occurred to me, and I have no doubt has previously occurred
to you, that a--I beg your pardon,' said Mr. Dunn, stopping short and
sniffing through his nose, 'isn't there a very peculiar smell?'
The manager, the inspector, and the sergeant all sniffed in concert;
the two latter never smelt anything, but the manager called out at
once, 'Something burning.'
'So I thought,' said Mr. Dunn; 'something woollen.'
'We must see to this at once,' cried the manager, and rushed out.
The others rushed with him, and after a prolonged amount of sniffing
made their way up the stairs leading to number ten. As they advanced
the smell grew stronger, and they came upon a vast quantity of smoke,
which they soon found proceeded from number ten itself, where the
atmosphere was so dense that it was impossible to see across the room.
There was no trace of any flame, but when the windows had been thrown
open it was discovered that the hearth-rug and a portion of the carpet
around it were smouldering slowly, and were nearly consumed. Bells
were rung and water was brought, though long before it arrived the
inspector and the sergeant had removed any further cause for fear by
stamping out the fire with their heavy boots.
The manager was very cross; he did not quite see how he could explain
the matter at the next meeting of the directors, and ask for a new
carpet. He had intended to show his temper to Mr. Dunn, but that
gentleman he saw was far too savage himself to brook being spoken to.
'It is most annoying,' said Mr. Dunn. 'I am only here for a day on my
way to Ireland and this accident occurs. The silly woman who lit the
fire did not bring a guard for it. I am unused to fires; I live in a
warm climate; but some friends of mine told me never to sit by a fire
in England unless it had a guard on it. I looked for a guard before I
left the room, but could not find one, and I thought it would be all
right.'
The manager was full of apologies.
'Should they move Mr. Dunn to another suite of rooms? They could do so
at once.'
'No, thank you,' said Mr. Dunn in reply. 'It is unfortunate, but still
it is an accident, and could not have been prevented. I will sleep in
the bedroom to-night, and I should not have used the sitting-room
much, as I am a stranger in Liverpool, and I want to see all that is
to be seen on this the only day I have. In the mean time, I shall be
thankful if you will prepare me a little dinner, some fish and a chop,
in the coffee-room, and I will come down to it as soon as I have
washed my hands and face, which seem to be tolerably blackened by the
smoke.'
When the manager and the servants had taken their departure--the
inspector and sergeant had gone long since--Mr. Dunn retired to his
bedroom, and, after turning the key in the door, took off his coat and
waistcoat, and seated himself on the edge of the bed.
'So far so good,' he soliloquised; 'so far everything that I have done
has been perfectly successful. My personal identity ceased on my
leaving America, and no one can have found any traces of Mr. Dolby,
the cynical millionaire, in Tom Summers, the sailor, or Mr. Dunn, the
soft-spoken tourist. One night more and I shake the dust of this land
from my feet, and can fairly consider myself scot free. That was a
lucky idea of mine to strew those cinders on the hearth-rug; the smell
of Tom Summers' smouldering rags might have awakened the keen
suspicions of those police gentry downstairs. That flannel shirt was
beginning to smoke confoundedly before I left the room, but that is
now all provided for; the police themselves were the first persons to
see what had occurred, and helped to extinguish the smouldering
carpet. Not one precaution has been omitted, and, distrustful of
myself as I generally am, I begin to look with pride upon my powers of
organisation as exhibited in this matter. If my orders have only been
implicitly obeyed in America, all I could have looked for is
accomplished. One more night of acting and character-playing, and I
can rest in peace, and return to reap the reward of all I have gone
through.'
Then Mr. Dunn rose from the edge of the bed, carefully washed his face
and hands, put on the gray coat and waistcoat, and, looking
wonderfully simple and respectable, went down to dinner.
The dinner was ready, and as soon as he heard that his visitor was
seated, the manager was in attendance to give special directions to
the waiter, and to exhibit the utmost consideration for one who had
been the victim of such an untoward accident. When Mr. Dunn had
finished his fish, the manager ventured to attempt a little
confidential conversation.
'That unfortunate fire, sir,' said he, 'prevented us hearing more
about the murder from the police. It is a very, very sad affair. I
have been with the inspector since I saw you, and though we are not
going to view the body until to-morrow, I have no doubt that the
unfortunate gentleman was a Mr. Foster, an American gentleman of great
wealth who had been staying in this house, and who occupied the very
rooms adjoining yours, where his things still remain.'
'An American was he?' asked Mr. Dunn.
'Yes, sir, American,' replied the manager; 'very rich, and with an
enormous fancy for theatricals. Beg your pardon, sir; not very much in
your line, I should say; but Mr. Foster was very fond of them indeed.
He came down here with the celebrated Bryan Duval, of whom you may
have heard, and a party of performers who were going across to
America. Mr. Foster left this house to see them off, and after that we
never set eyes upon him.'
'That's a strange thing for an inhabitant of such a town as Liverpool
to confess,' said Mr. Dunn. 'We in the colonies speak of the mother
country as the home of the rarest civilisation. What with your gas and
your much-vaunted police arrangement, we are apt to boast of the
safety of your streets, of the enormous difference between the state
of things in which law and order prevail and where they are governed
by a reckless rabble, such as is sometimes found amongst us; and yet
here is a most wonderfully cool and audacious murder committed in the
heart of the second city of the empire, and not discovered for a
certain number of hours afterwards. By the way, is there no trace of
the wretch who committed the crime?'
'No, sir, not yet; though I don't know what evidence Inspector Jeffery
may bring forward at the inquest to-morrow morning. Perhaps you would
like to be present at the inquest, sir? I am sure I should be able to
get a place for you.'
'You are very good,' said Mr. Dunn, 'and I should much like to be
present at the scene, as a study of law, of character, and society;
but my time to return to Jamaica is drawing nigh and I must get
through the rest of my British visits as soon as I can. The direct
steamer for Belfast leaves to-morrow morning?'
The manager replied in the affirmative.
'Then I will go by it,' said Mr. Dunn. 'I have heard much of the
beauties of Ireland, and I wish to see them before I return. Now I
think I will make my way to bed, for I have had a fatiguing day. I
wish you good-night.'
The manager bowed his acknowledgment of his politeness, and Mr. Dunn
retired.
As, about noon next day, Mr. Dunn was proceeding to the cab which was
to convey him to the dock, he saw in the hall of the hotel the
presiding goddess in the glass case, and the chambermaid, gallantly
escorted by Inspector Jeffery, one of the waiters, and the porter.
'The witnesses, sir,' whispered the manager, pointing to them. 'The
body has been removed to the dead-house, the inquest is just over, and
the jury found a verdict of wilful murder against some person or
persons unknown.'
'Unknown!' echoed Mr. Dunn. 'Then there is no trace of the murderer?'
'Not at present, sir,' said the manager. 'Inspector Jeffery had
nothing to bring forward. I wish you good-morning, sir.'
'Good-morning,' said Mr. Dunn, descending the steps.
Then, as the cab drove off, he opened his shoulders, took a long
respiration, and muttered between his teeth, 'At last! Scot free!'